


red hands: wasteland, baby

by reveries_passions



Series: red hands. [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beating, Brief Smut, Coming Out, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Dystopia, First Relationship, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Kinda, Kissing, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence, World War III, homophobic violence, mentions of guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-28 00:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18200816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveries_passions/pseuds/reveries_passions
Summary: “You’re not a burden,” Louis says whenever Harry brings it up. “Never think that for a second. Iloveyou; it doesn’t matter how you feel, or how you act. It doesn’t matter how broken you think you are. Iloveyou, and I’ll always be here to put you back together.”Harry always says Iloveyou back, even though the phrase confuses him.Loveis more than this;loveis touch, and intimacy.Loveis things that Harry can’t give Louis. Sometimes Harry’s not even sure he knows whatloveis.orharry andlove, through the ages. (and set in the red hands universe.)





	1. PART ONE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [userkant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/userkant/gifts).



> i wrote this fic on behalf of [userkant](http://userkant.tumblr.com), whose idea inspired me to revisit this universe. red hands has been my favorite thing to make and i love these characters like they're my kids. for some background: the prompt for this was along the lines of exploring harry's experiences with his past lovers, overcoming his internalized homophobia, and learning to love after his trauma, throughout the timeline red hands discusses.  
> this fic is short but i think it sets straight a lot of questions people have had about harry, louis, and zayn. i hope you love it as much as i do!  
> i strongly recommend you read [red hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14805035/chapters/34254722) as this contains lots of spoilers!!  
> title from [wasteland, baby!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N4rKN_qW5DU) by hozier.  
> find me on tumblr [here](http://dystopianharry.tumblr.com).
> 
>  
> 
> **disclaimer: this fic contains brief descriptions of assault/homophobic violence and very brief depictions of sexual violence that may be triggering. please read with care!**

**july, 2014**

  
  


Like most things do, it starts with a question. So quiet it can barely be heard, but so potent it can almost be seen. It comes out of Harry’s mouth hazy and in the midst of sleep. He’s tucked into Gemma’s side, summer breeze drifting in through the open rafters of the church, and he’s watching a girl and boy touch faces. 

“Can boys like boys?” he whispers.

Gemma tilts her head, and her face is a silhouette against the dark blue washed canvas of their 8pm curfew. 

“Why?” 

“Just curious.” 

“You mean...like,  _ like  _ like?”

Harry hums. It strikes him now that it may have been a bad idea to ask, and that Gemma probably doesn’t even know herself. It’s not that he’s worried the answer will be no; he’s more nervous the answer will be yes, because that will mean he has bigger thoughts to conquer. 

“Anyone can like anyone, Haz. Long as they’re a good person. And happy.” 

“Hm.” His gaze drifts back over to the boy and girl, maybe a couple years older than him. They must be just on the cusp of aging out of the shelter system. They’ll have to live on the streets soon, until the camps catch them. 

He’s not sure why this information seems relevant to him at this moment, but at the answer he receives, he settles deeper into the corner crevice of the chapel, and sighs to himself. He might need it later, is the thing. When he’s older. So Harry tucks the thought away into the back of his brain, saving it for whenever that ‘later’ comes, and falls asleep. 

  
  


**april, 2015**

  
  


He’s fifteen, and they’ve survived the winter. 

It had been harsh. Really harsh. The food had run out in January, and the water in February, and everything had frozen over in March’s vortex. But the ice has finally melted, and the shelters have space again, because in the warmer months it’s easier to keep moving. Harry’s not scared of dying like he is when it’s cold, and so he detenses a little bit, starts staying up to watch the sunset before disappearing into whatever chapel they’re holed up in for the night. 

Tonight they’re in Stafford, just outside of Wolverhampton, and the place is rather industrial. They’d walked down some train tracks to get here. 

It’s important that Harry stays close to Gemma’s side throughout their admission to a shelter, to prove that they’re siblings, and that he’s young enough to be let in. In a year from now, he’ll have to begin providing proof of age and his relationship to Gemma, because boys over sixteen aren’t let in unless they’re with a sibling. Harry’s not looking forward to being sixteen. He doesn’t have any proof of his age. 

They get inside, and Gemma makes a beeline for the restroom, which leaves Harry to entertain himself until she’s addressed her appearance. He’s balancing on the pews, pacing, when he looks up to see a group of boys about his age perched on the rafters. Their legs are swinging, and Harry has no idea how they got up there. 

He sticks his hands in his pockets and squints up at them. They’re not up high, or else they would get yelled at. A boy on the far left, one with curly blonde hair, is wearing a ragged pair of Timberland boots. They look warm. Harry could use a nice pair of boots like that. His own are falling apart. 

“What’re you starin’ at?” one of the boys shouts, and, startled, Harry realizes they’re addressing him. 

Harry just shakes his head, cheeks flaming, and keeps walking. 

It’s supper a few hours later, and the children in the shelter gather in the chapel for the night to prepare for sleep. Harry catches sight of the blonde boy again, scooping stew into his mouth hungrily, boots gleaming in the light. Harry’s not fast enough to look away; the boy turns to see him staring, and Harry flinches automatically, waiting to be reprimanded. 

The boy doesn’t reprimand him. He just offers Harry a small smile and a wave. 

Twenty minutes before curfew, when Harry retreats to the back to wash up, he runs into the same boy. He’s cradling a book in one hand and a toothbrush in the other. 

“Sorry,” Harry says automatically, because they’d almost walked right into each other. 

“That’s okay,” the boy replies. “What’s your name?” 

Harry blinks. His name? The boy wants to know his name? 

“Harry,” Harry replies slowly, and a little cautiously. 

“I’m Joe,” Joe answers. “You from around here?” 

The questions seem suspicious, but Harry’s not really thinking about that. He’s thinking about Joe, and Joe’s blue eyes, and his nice smile. He’s not even thinking about Joe’s boots anymore. 

“Manchester,” Harry says. “With my sister. We move around a lot.” 

Joe grins. He has a dimple in his chin. “Nice. Same with these guys. We’re almost too old. It is what it is, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Harry echoes. 

There’s a somber moment of silence, and then Joe laughs a little. “Well, I’ll let you get to it. You’ll be around tomorrow?” 

Harry feels a little pink in the face and a little dizzy with the sensation of talking to another boy his age. “Of course.”

“Sick. I’ll see you around, Harry.” Without another word, Joe leaves and goes to bed. Five minutes later, Harry is standing in the exact same spot. 

 

*

 

Harry and Gemma are around for three more days, and in these three days, Joe and Harry become very good friends, to the point where Harry is with him more than he’s with Gemma. 

He doesn’t feel guilty, but he feels a little guilty about not being guilty. Joe is really sweet. He doesn’t treat Harry like a little kid. They eat supper together the last two nights, and they sit so close their shoulders are touching. Harry feels giddy and glowing with the attention. 

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Harry reminds Joe their last night, legs swinging from the rafters, but this time he has Joe to himself. 

“I know. Gonna miss you, to be honest.” 

Harry’s heart pounds. “Really?” 

“Of course. You’re sweet. And just look at your curls.” Joe tugs one for good measure, which leaves Harry a right giggly mess. 

The curfew bell rings, and Harry and Joe climb down from the beam in the roof. 

“Sun up,” Harry murmurs before they go to bed. “Will you be awake?” 

“Definitely,” Joe says back. 

The next morning, Gemma packs up all their things and they sign out of the Stafford shelter. Joe is waiting by the door for Harry. 

“Safe travels,” Joe says softly. “I hope I see you around sometime, Harry.” 

“You too,” Harry answers. “Watch your back out there.”

Abruptly, Joe shoves his Timberlands into Harry’s hands. Harry stands there looking down at them, his mouth hanging open. 

“For me?” 

“Of course. They’re good shoes. You’ll need ‘em.” And then...Joe leans in and kisses Harry’s cheek, very, very gently. 

“Oh,” Harry says, feeling like he’s burst into flames suddenly. “I...thank you. So much.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Joe says, lips turned up in a tiny smile. “Bye, Harry.” 

“Bye, Joe.” 

Gemma practically drags him out of the church by his hair, and then they’re on the road again. Harry thinks about that little thought he’d tucked away the year before. 

Hm. Funny. 

  
  


**november, 2016**

  
  


“You’re shaking.” 

Harry looks down at his hands. They’re all raw and bleeding, nails bitten down. The boy in front of him is right. Harry’s been trembling since they’d let him out of the truck. It’s an awful kind of fear, one that he knows he’ll feel for a long time. One he won’t ever be able to shake. 

“Are you cold?” 

If there weren’t screams coming from every direction, half from the batch of boys the camp had caught from the shelter, and half from Harry’s own head, he would probably start wailing right about now. He feels like throwing up, except there’s nothing in his stomach. 

Harry nods. 

He finds out, shortly after, that the boy’s name is Z. And his sister is probably dead. Harry thinks they could find a way out of here.

But Z doesn’t talk to Harry again for a while. 

 

*

 

It’s been two months since camp caught him now, two months since he’s seen Gemma, two months since he last breathed real air. 

He hasn’t really spoken to anyone. He watches a lot. There’s just...there’s just so many people. So many boys. More than he knows how to function around. Gemma had always kept him close, kept him on the girls’ side of the shelter, never taken her eyes off him. But none of these boys give two shits about him. 

Except. Harry catches Z staring at him every now and again. His eyes are full of something, but Harry’s never able to look at them long enough to figure out what it is. 

Nonetheless, Harry’s never felt more alone. 

  
  


**spring, 2017**

  
  


Admittedly, Harry’s been a little dramatic with the several month long adjustment.

He feels like he sort of has a right to, though, and maybe that makes him a shitty person, but he can’t be judged terribly hard on  _ that _ front. Harry passes their first military exams with flying colors. The board by the head cabin has their rankings pinned to the door. 

Harry is number one. 

Face burning, he can barely hide his smile. His squad is congratulating him, slapping him on the shoulder playfully. He’s getting some dirty looks from the older boys, the over 18s. 

“Good job,” Z says quietly in passing, his mouth quirked up in an amused smirk. 

And then...holy shit. The light changes a little bit, a deliciously golden sunset, and suddenly Z is the prettiest person Harry’s ever seen. Harry thinks he falls in love the second Z makes direct eye contact with him.

“Do you wanna pick flowers with me?” Harry blurts out. 

Z gets all squinty and smiley. “Okay.” 

 

*

 

Harry returns to his tent with two peonies he tucks into his journal as bookmarks. He feels pretty good.

 

*

 

Harry and Z are inseparable within the week. Harry wonders, maybe, if they could be more; Z makes him happy, he’s a sweet personality and nice to look at, and Gemma had told him all that time ago that it’s okay to be happy. Harry’s gotten rather clingy, and they sit close together often, Z playing with his overgrown hair out of boredom sometimes. 

Harry’s waiting for when summer hits, so he can begin to estimate what month it is, but it’s chilly during supper one evening, and Harry forgets himself, and rests his head on Z’s shoulder, yawning. 

A guard grabs him by the throat and beats him into the ground in front of everyone. Then he’s thrown in solitary for the night, and he pretends he can’t feel bugs crawling up his legs and arms in the dark. 

  
  


**summer, 2017**

  
  


He needs to stop. 

He touches the back of Z’s hand to get his attention, and a guard slaps him on the cheek. He pinches a strand of Z’s hair after it’s been messed up from the rain, and he almost has his wrist broken. He links arms with Z on the first warm-ish day of the year, and he’s clocked in the jaw, so hard he can’t eat for two days. 

Harry wishes Gemma was here to set things right, but she isn’t, so Harry stops touching Z. 

After a bit, he stops smiling at Z too. He still forgets himself sometimes and the guards hurt him for it, so he decides to stop making eye contact with Z. 

With anyone, for that matter. 

 

*

 

They take him to the head cabin, and he almost breaks down in tears. 

He hasn’t even done anything  _ wrong.  _ He’s been so well behaved lately, not interacting with any of the other soldiers outside of his cabin, not talking, eating all his food. There’s a pit forming in his stomach, and he almost throws up when his escort shuts him in a tiny room, adorned with decorations and office-y things he’s never seen before in the vicinity of this camp. 

Nobody comes in for a while, so he sits in silence and wills his heart to slow down. Then the door slides open, and in walks one of the head guards, the kind of person Harry’s told to never look at, speak to, think about. Harry freezes, seals his lips, and averts his gaze down to the floor. 

“Harry Styles?” 

Harry nods automatically. The man speaks with an odd accent, and Harry catches sight of his hand, covered in metal rings. 

“You can look at me.” 

Trembling, Harry does. The man’s face is rough and unkind. Harry fears he’s about to be killed.

“Your scores are good,” the guard says. “How old are you?” 

He has to clear his throat before speaking, because his airway’s closed up. “Seventeen, sir.” 

“Stand up.”   
Harry does. 

“Are you a cheater?” 

“Wh...I’m sorry, sir?” 

“Do you cheat?” the guard asks harshly. 

“N--no, sir,” Harry stammers. 

“How are your scores so high then?” 

Harry stares at him dumbly, opening his mouth uselessly, but he’s already taken too long. He still doesn’t have an answer when the man’s heavy hand slams into his throat, forcing Harry against the wall behind him. Suddenly he can’t breathe. 

He flails weakly, pulls at the man’s arm, scratches down his skin, because Harry’s eyes are bulging out of their sockets and his lips feel like they’re swelling and he can’t see  _ anything _ . And then, just when he thinks he’s going to die, the hand is removed, and he drops limply to the floor. 

A lot happens after this, a lot that Harry knows is happening but can’t do anything about. He’s crying, he’s sure of that; he tries to scream but his throat is all swollen and nothing comes out. The whole time, the man tells Harry if he says anything, he’ll be killed. 

The man leaves eventually, just leaves Harry an empty shell, swollen and bruised and paralyzed with terror. Harry lies there, and time drags on, and Harry wishes he could call for help, but he can’t, so he weeps. 

And now’s when the shame sets in. 

Harry wishes the man had just killed him instead. 

  
  


**fall, 2017**

  
  


Harry tries for a month to wash the man’s fingerprints off his skin, but it doesn’t work, so he stops trying. 

Z also stops trying to get him to talk again. He knows something’s happened, but Harry won’t tell him. 

And so the leaves change color, the days roll by sluggishly, bleeding into the next, and just as Harry thinks he might be able to live again, might be able to endure looking Z in the face, he’s taken to that room again. 

He puts up an insane fight this time. Screaming, clawing, biting, every violent gesture he can possibly conjure up, even this weak. But it doesn’t work. Harry never wins; he knows that by now. 

He doesn’t see the same person when he looks in the mirror. 

  
  


**december, 2017**

  
  


“It’s December 14th.”

Harry hasn’t cried in a while now. He stopped after the fourth time; he’s become rather hardened, after everything. But there’s a new kid in his cabin, this bleach blonde haired, blue eyed kid who looks a little like Joe, if Joe is still alive, and something about the way he’s peering over Harry’s shoulder at the estimated date in his journal makes Harry want to  _ wail _ .

Well. The kid is beaten on his second day at camp. Harry watches it happen. Harry watches it because it was his fault. 

The kid’s name is Niall, and he’d offered Harry some food off his own plate, and Harry hadn’t had time to decline before the guards were on him like mad dogs, tearing him off the bench and throwing him into the dirt. Niall’s been left with a black eye, and a bloody nose, and that night, even in the shelter of their cabin, the poor kid won’t stop shaking. 

“I’m--” Harry means to say he’s sorry, built up in a burst of courage, but Niall stops him before he can even get the word out. 

“Don’t. Was my choice, wasn’t it? No need to say sorry.” 

Niall has a thick Irish accent, which means he’d gotten far before being caught and taken to Manchester. 

“You’re H, aren’t ya’?” Niall asks kindly, leaning forward from his perch on his bunk. 

Harry nods, very careful to not look in Niall’s eyes.

“Ah. So you’re the top lad, then?” 

“I dunno.” 

Niall grins, and Harry’s stomach flutters. 

“Don’t hide it. You gotta find things that make you special. Being top lad’s a good one. Hold onto that.” 

Harry looks across the cabin. Z is watching him. 

  
  


**harry’s birthday, 2018**

  
  


“Please, H.” 

“I can’t.” 

“H. You’re bleeding.”   
“Don’t touch me.” 

“You’ve scrubbed your skin raw.” Z takes a gentle hold of Harry’s hand, which is red and blistered with the kitchen’s hot water. Harry has to resist the urge to throw him off with all his strength. “Jesus, show me your hand.” 

Harry’s going to  _ kill  _ the person who’d put their shift together tonight. Harry had thought he’d been completely inconspicuous up until now; not talking to anyone unless he’s had to, keeping to himself and his journal. But Z is smart, and he’s finally figured it out. He’s seen the bruises on Harry’s lower back, and around his throat. Z has put two and two together. 

Harry must be mumbling nonsense, ready to tear out his hair, but Zayn catches some words here and there. 

“You’re clean. H. Look at your hands? There’s no dirt.” 

It’s freezing outside, but there’s sweat all down Harry’s face. He feels like he can’t breathe. Everything feels sticky and disgusting and he’s repulsed at himself, at the germs all over him, and the bug bites, and the  _ bruises.  _ He just wants to be  _ clean.  _

“Not dirt,” Harry manages miserably. Z looks awfully distressed. “Please, please don’t tell anyone.” 

“They can’t do this to you,” Z says, mouth set in a line. 

“They can. They  _ are _ . Just please promise me you won’t tell anyone, I’m fine, just--these clothes are so dirty--”

“Breathe, H.” 

Throat aching, Harry drops into a sitting position on the frozen ground, and tucks his head in between his knees. He thinks if he could only make himself smaller, he could just disappear. 

But he does what Z says. He squeezes his eyes shut and pushes air out of his lungs until his vision clears and his mind feels less foggy. 

“Listen to me, H.” Z touches his calf gently, and Harry hiccups. “It feels like they’re taking everything from you, but they’re not. This is just a thing. You’re still you. You don’t need to change a bit. You understand me? They haven’t taken  _ anything. _ ” 

Harry doesn’t say anything; he’s not sure he could if he tried. 

“You’re strong. You’re stronger than they are. Don’t let them take away who you are.” 

Z’s voice is almost in a whisper, but Harry hears all of it clear as day. Not any outside noise; not the hot water dripping into the sink, not the stove crackling away. 

“You’re still  _ you _ ,” Z repeats. 

Harry looks over at the winking camera in the upper corner of the kitchen. They’ll pay hell for this later. 

But Harry’s alive. That, right now, is all that matters. 

  
  


**march, 2018**

  
  


It gets better. 

Harry doesn’t know how it does, but it  _ does.  _ Z helps a lot. He teaches Harry how to be human again. 

Z finds all the best, secret places for them to be close, and all the blind spots where they can talk to each other. Behind the kitchens. The wheatfield. Niall and Ed haven’t caught on yet, but Harry thinks they will soon, and funnily, he’s not worried. They’ve formed a pretty tight knit group since Harry’s opened up again. They’re all happier, and Harry can’t help but figure that’s because of him. It’s nice to be needed. 

Talking and being close to Z turns into grazing knuckles, which turns into holding hands, and Harry isn’t so scared of himself anymore. 

Z kisses him on the first day of spring. It’s perfect. Harry feels a little more clean. 

 

*

 

They kiss a lot after that. It’s normal. 

The assaults don’t stop. Neither do the regular public beatings. Harry stops resisting, because there’s no point to it. Z had told him to take his mind to another place while it’s happening, so Harry does. And he thinks it works, because he doesn’t feel as broken when it’s over. He just lives for a while. Spring drags on slowly, and turns into summer. Him, Z, Ed, and Niall are inseparable. There’s not a minute they aren’t together. They dye Niall’s hair, and Ed teaches them how to read music, and Z and Harry hide in their secret spots and kiss until the sun disappears. 

It’s been a month since the last time, and Harry thinks things are finally looking up. 

Then their mission fails. And Ed dies. And Niall probably won’t ever walk again. 

And it’s all Harry’s fault. 

  
  


**may, 2018**

  
  


Harry is shot in the chest on a mission. 

He can’t help but think he deserves it. That is, once he’s realized he isn’t going to die.

  
  


**july, 2018**

  
  


Disease. 

Heat makes it worse. Boys start getting sick, and then they start dying, and...fuck, is that a welt on Harry’s shoulder? 

They take him in the middle of the night. He doesn’t know how they found out, because he’s not showing any symptoms. Z is the only one who knows about Harry’s welt, anyway, and he wouldn’t tell a soul, would he? 

  
  


**september, 2018**

  
  


Warmth is leaving, and quickly. 

Winter will be here soon. Z develops a sense of urgency, out of nowhere, and asks Harry if they can  _ do it.  _ Harry panics. Z has to coddle him out of his tears. 

Harry, really, is waiting for the next assault. But it doesn’t come. It hasn’t in a couple months now. He feels more himself than he has in a while. So he complies, reluctantly, but in the end, he’s glad he does. 

Z is sweet, and caring, and everything Harry’s never had. Harry thinks he’s in love with Z. 

Falling in love will end up being the worst decision he’s made in his entire life, but now, it feels right. 

  
  


**january, 2019**

  
  


Z lied. 

Harry does the only thing he knows; he flees, and he tries to forget. 

 


	2. PART TWO

**may, 2022**

  
  


Harry doesn’t know what came over him. 

One second, he’s watching the blood drain from Louis’ body, and the next, Louis is pressing their lips together, and Harry is kissing back. 

He never thought he’d break himself like this. He forbade it three years ago. And not even four months into being attached to civilization, he’s caved, cracked his own oath clean through, and there’s no solace in being alone, no comfort in being with people. 

The problem isn’t that Z has imprinted too heavily on his heart and Harry can’t let him go. 

The problem is he  _ is letting him go.  _ And Z’s imprint is being replaced with Louis.

Louis’ lips, his eyes, his words, his careful hands around the grip of a gun, his grit, his anger, his rebellion. His  _ Rebellion _ , that he’s in charge of. 

Harry is falling dangerously quickly. 

But he’s not going down without a fight. 

So he fights it. 

 

*

 

...And just as he thinks he’s let Louis go, he finds out that Louis has lied to him. 

All this time, in which Harry thought his secret was out, and that he was safe, he  _ wasn’t.  _ He’d gotten too comfortable, too content with himself, enough for a possible slip up. 

He’s so stupid. He should never have trusted Louis; he should have been watching his back this whole time. 

He doesn’t sleep properly for a while, because he’s too busy trying to recall every single careless, feminine thing he’s done in the past few months. Anything that could’ve given him away, given Ben a hint. This is what happens when he lets his guard down. And now he can’t trust himself, either. 

He feels like his own worst enemy.

  
  


**june, 2022**

  
  


He’s naked, and he’s in Louis’ bed. 

Harry’s in so deep he can’t even see the surface. There are memories flooding his head of the last time he felt something like this. The physical feeling of being close to someone, intimate with someone. The truth is, he thought it’d be too similar to the assaults, to strange mens’ hands, to Z’s hands, to everything wrong about his sexuality and himself. But it’s  _ different.  _ It’s  _ right _ . And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Harry can wash off germs and grime and blood, but he can’t wash off what feels right. And Louis...Louis is what feels right. 

So why had all those other men felt so wrong? 

For starters, Harry knows that what they did to him was bad, and probably morally wrong as well, but there’s still a part of him that wonders if  _ that’s  _ what his sexuality means. That that’s what being with men was  _ supposed  _ to feel like, and maybe...maybe he’s been wrong about himself all along. Maybe he doesn’t really like boys in the way he thought he did. Maybe he only likes the attention, or being treated gently. 

But then he thinks about Z, and Louis, and the only distinction he can make are _ feelings.  _

Blind adoration for Z. Something else for Louis. He can’t figure out what it is yet, but Louis had been so gentle with him last night, and he can’t get it out of his head. 

Of course, he doesn’t know what he feels for Louis...just that it’s right. And when he looks in the mirror after his shower, with his strawberry scented hair and Louis’ smell all around the room...he sees a human being. Not a damaged survivor. So he kisses Louis back before they go to work.

Anyway, Harry would be stupid to not indulge himself a little bit, wouldn’t he? 

  
  


**august, 2022**

  
  


Sex. 

The room smells like sex. And not in a good way, if a good way exists, because the smell of sex isn’t a good one in Harry’s memory. 

Louis looks so damn sorry. And that’s why Harry starts crying--because no one has ever looked sorry before. And Louis hasn’t even  _ hurt  _ him. 

Guilt clogging all of his senses, Harry curls up as small as he can. He wishes he wasn’t so tall. The more space he takes up, the easier it is for someone to grab him…

But Louis would never do that. Of course he wouldn’t! His hand is close to Harry’s wrist, and he could take a hold of it if he wanted to, but Louis  _ wouldn’t _ . He’s not going to put his hand around Harry’s throat. He’s not going to pin Harry to the mattress, and even if he did, Harry’s strong enough to fight him off. He hadn’t been strong enough at seventeen, but at twenty-two, and with experience, he could definitely do it. 

He looks over at Louis. Louis is watching him, face pinched with worry and sorrow, and Harry realizes he’s recoiled to the corner of the bed, and he’s flinching each time Louis moves. He feels so dirty. Like he’s covered in grime and blood again.

Those men have really fucked Harry up. 

He blinks up at Louis apologetically. It’s the only thing he has the energy to do. 

Progress. He thought he’d made progress. But now, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be clean. 

 

*

 

Z is gone, but Harry’s been given a lot of new things. 

Gemma. Olivia. Niall, Liam, the Rebellion. The Revolution.

Louis. 

They’re all in his hands, as if some strand of fate has planted them there, and said, “It’s all yours now. Start fresh.” 

Harry thinks he can try. The world is changing, after all.

  
  


**september, 2022**

  
  


Their hands graze up against each other in the cafeteria, and it’s an accident, but Harry doesn’t miss the way Louis’ eyes flit around anxiously, like he’s worried someone will see. 

That’s really when it hits Harry; that Louis is kind of the same as him. 

Louis is nervous. And he cares about what other people think of their relationship. Harry knows there’s a nagging in the back of his brain; a voice that’s telling him that he’s not worthy of public displays of affection, that they aren’t working hard enough, that they haven’t earned any validity. 

It breaks Harry’s heart. Because Louis is never ashamed. Louis doesn’t care what anyone thinks of anything he does. Louis runs the  _ Rebellion _ . But Harry can’t help the way he flinches away if Louis so much as moves too quickly, or panic when someone glances at them holding hands for a moment too long. 

Louis deserves better. Louis deserves to be touched, and to have Harry’s love.

They’re both pretty fucked up. It’s not fair that the world had to be this cruel to them. But Harry doesn’t know how to fix it. 

  
  


**december, 2022**

  
  


It feels impossible to function a lot of the time. Harry’s stuck in a weird headspace, where he feels like he’s trapped in a dream, and it gets so bad Louis has to coax him back down, with his gentle hand and soft words. Harry has really started to believe he’s a burden. 

“You’re not a burden,” Louis says whenever Harry brings it up. “Never think that for a second. I  _ love  _ you; it doesn’t matter how you feel, or how you act. It doesn’t matter how broken you think you are. I love you, and I’ll always be here to put you back together.” 

Harry always says  _ I love you  _ back, even though the phrase confuses him. Love is more than this; love is touch, and intimacy. Love is things that Harry can’t give Louis. Sometimes Harry’s not even sure he knows what love is. 

It’s eating him alive, so on New Year’s Eve, he tells Louis he wants to have sex. 

They’re in Louis’ bathtub, Harry’s chest against Louis’ back, skin pruning in the hot water. Harry thinks he could fall asleep like this, wrapped up in Louis’ arms; it’s times like now Harry wonders why it’s so hard to love Louis the way Louis wants to love Harry. 

“What brought this on?” Louis asks gently, and Harry crosses their ankles together, not saying anything for a while. 

“I want you to be the only person I remember when you touch me,” Harry settles on, and Louis kisses the top of his head. 

“I want what you want,” Louis replies. 

Harry doesn’t know when Louis plans on initiating the whole sex thing, but he jerks Harry off underneath the lavender scented water, while Harry whimpers into his collarbone, chest tight with Louis’ attention and Louis whispering  _ I love you  _ into his hair. 

 

*

 

They ring in 2023 with a public kiss, while Rebels shout their happiness at living through another year, and confetti is thrown into the air with great reckless abandon for tomorrow’s cleanup. 

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Just Gemma and Olivia dancing together, Niall snogging Leigh in the corner, Greg and Perrie ushering the children to bed, Jack and Liam drunkenly shouting the chorus of Sweet Caroline. 

“Happy New Year,” Louis laughs into Harry’s mouth. “I love you.” 

Fuck, Harry loves him so much. He didn’t think it was possible to love someone this much. 

“I love you,” Harry murmurs, and kisses him again. “I love you so much.” 

He’s never felt so alive. 

  
  


**january, 2023**

  
  


Harry tries.    
He tries so fucking hard to not freak out. But his skin is crawling, and Louis’ hands are clean but Harry still feels dirty, and Louis can tell. He can tell right away that Harry’s going to throw up, so he shoves a trash can under his chin and rubs his back while Harry dry heaves.

After that, Harry cries for a few minutes into Louis’ shoulder. Louis is nothing but caring and loving, saying all the right things and tying Harry’s hair back for him, but they both know Harry’s right back where they started. It’ll take him another couple months before he can hold Louis’ hand in public again. 

Harry has recurrent nightmares for about a week following New Year’s Day. Most of them feature Z, and in them, Harry touches him fleetingly, before he’s beaten into the ground to suffer the worst pain he’s ever felt. He always wakes up in the middle of a scream, and Louis is always awake when it happens, as if Harry’s been disturbing him for a while. 

They’ll try again sometime. Harry will keep trying until he can give Louis this part of him. 

In the meantime, he’ll just have to deal with the panic attacks. 

  
  


**march, 2023**

  
  


Every Saturday and Sunday morning, Louis wakes Harry with a tray of breakfast for them to share. They shower together once a week, and Harry washes Louis’ hair for him. When Louis is working in his office, after Harry is done working out, he brings Louis lunch and holds his hand while they eat. 

They kiss every opportunity they get, but only when they’re alone, or comfortable, and rarely in front of other people. For Harry, it’s enough. But he can tell it’s not for Louis. 

It’s easy to get lost in the days. Harry’s turned twenty-three, and he’s been with the Rebellion for a year now. He’s watching Olivia and May grow up, and the Revolution is dragging on painstakingly, and he’s noticing his nightmares are less frequent and he’s not getting in his weird headspace as much anymore. So, in hindsight, things are better. 

But Louis. Louis keeps getting fidgety, and it happens when they’re in public, all the times when Harry doesn’t hold his hand because he’s anxious, or Harry doesn’t sit too close to him because it’s too much like what he got beaten for at camp. 

Harry’s scared that if it goes on like this, they’re going to lose each other. 

He gets back from a run late at night, but not late enough for Louis to have retired to bed. He’s still in his office, sat over a pile of documents and squinting through his glasses, and sleepily, Harry sits down on the desk beside where he’s working, rubbing his eyes. 

“You alright, baby?” Louis asks, touching his hand. 

Harry hums, and then blurts out, “We should try again.” 

Louis frowns at him, and takes his glasses off. “You mean…?” 

“Yeah.” 

With a sigh, Louis gets up and puts the stack of papers in his drawer, folding his glasses and uncuffing his sleeves. Harry watches his movements intently. This is going to fix things. Harry’s not going to panic. He loves Louis too much to put him through that again. 

Louis walks up to Harry where he’s still perched on the desk, standing in between his parted knees and putting a hand on his cheek. 

“You look exhausted,” Louis observes. 

“I’m okay.” 

Louis searches his face for a moment, and looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, so Harry kisses him. 

They’re both pleasantly turned on when they part to breathe, but there’s a pit in Harry’s stomach...it’s steadily growing bigger, blossoming the more Louis puts his hands on Harry, and he feels sick with lack of control. Louis’ hand, gentle, moves up Harry’s back slowly, underneath his shirt, and...it’s good, but it’s not love. It doesn’t feel like love. Harry doesn’t have a clue what sex is  _ supposed  _ to feel like, so maybe it is supposed to be bad. Maybe he just has to brave the panic for Louis’ sake. 

That is, until Louis pulls back completely. He takes Harry’s hand, and Harry realizes he’s been shaking this whole time. He thinks he might be sick.

“Why do you want this?” Louis asks him carefully. He’s so beautiful, and he deserves so much better than what Harry can give him. 

Harry’s throat feels tight. “I...I want to show you how much I love you.” 

Louis tilts his head. “You think I don’t already know how much you love me?” 

Harry doesn’t have an answer. He averts his gaze to the floor. 

“I don’t care,” Louis says, “How long it takes. I don’t care if we never have sex. All I want is your love.” Harry opens his mouth to speak, but Louis cuts him off. “Love isn’t in how much we get off with each other. It’s just  _ you.  _ It’s what you do for me. It’s your gorgeous eyes.” Harry’s face goes warm, and Louis’ mouth quirks up at the corner. “It’s your big heart. But it’s not something to be held back. You understand that you’re safe here, right? That no matter what we do in front of other people, no one is going to hurt you?” 

Louis is a lot better at reading Harry than he likes to think. 

“I don’t know,” Harry whispers helplessly. 

Calmly, slowly, Louis takes Harry’s hands in both of his, and touches their foreheads together so their noses are bumping. 

“Put your trust in me, baby,” Louis murmurs. “You’re enough. We’re enough. Yeah?” 

Harry lets out a big breath of air. 

“Say it.” 

He twists his hand in Harry’s hair, strokes a thumb over his eyebrow, and Harry forgets his past for a moment. 

“We’re enough,” Harry echoes quietly, and Louis kisses him again. 

He’s not sure he totally believes it yet. 

But he thinks he will. One day. 

  
  


**june, 2023**

  
  


It’s exhausting, being a Rebel. 

There’s a lot to do, and all the time. Harry’s busy all day, every day, every week. When he’s not in the passenger side of a van, with a rifle tucked in between his knees, he’s in the Hub planning out their upcoming missions, or mapping something in Louis’ office. It feels good to be productive, but...he and Louis haven’t  _ done  _ anything in a while. Harry feels worn thin, like he’s being pulled in a million different directions, and Louis is only one of them. 

The truth is, he misses the two of them. And it isn’t like it’s not dangerous and risky, what they do. 

He wants to fill every bit of spare time with love. 

And that’s what he tells Louis. 

They’re in bed, Harry’s head on Louis’ chest, toying with their hands, which are curled into each other. They’re naked, too, the weather far too warm for extra clothes, 

“I wanna try again,” Harry mumbles. It’s late. They should both be asleep. 

“Baby, we talked about this--” 

“I’m serious. There are probably other ways we can do it.” Harry yawns. Louis’ chest rising and falling is making him sleepy. 

“Hm,” Louis says. And then, “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” Harry whispers back. 

Every time they say these words to each other, Harry feels like a tiny part of him is healed. Louis had said he’d always be there to put Harry back together. Harry believes it more and more every day.

  
  


**july, 2023**

  
  


It’s hard to remember, sometimes, that Harry’s life is more than just being a Rebel. He gets lost in the missions, the gunfire and the planning and the Revolution, and Louis has to remind him that he’s Harry, not a nameless soldier. 

Now, Harry hadn’t realized that being ‘on top’ was a thing, but Louis explains kindly that it is, and they can try it, if Harry really wants to, and as long as they go slow. Harry agrees, albeit a little anxiously, but without a doubt willing. 

There’s not even a week until they fly to Glasgow. It’s just meetings, but they all know the long standing risk of going anywhere above ground these days, and, well, if anything were to happen to either of them, Harry couldn’t be content with not having given Louis this part of him. 

It’s almost an accident, the night it happens. Almost. Harry is wearing a too-big hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, because it’s hot outside but he likes to feel warm lately, and Louis comes into the room looking like light itself. Harry just...loves him so much. Wants to do everything with him, for him. Wants to give him more love than he knows how to give. 

“You look far too comfortable,” Louis teases, unbuttoning his shirt. His hair’s gotten long enough so that it curls at the end of his fringe, and it’s Harry’s favorite thing in the world. He’s a little scruffy, too, and he’s tired from the long day, but he’s gorgeous, and Harry’s in  _ love  _ with him. He feels it in his soul tonight. So he gets up from the bed, wraps Louis in a hug, and kisses him softly. And everything on the outside drifts away for a little bit. 

“I wanna do it tonight,” Harry whispers, before Louis can say anything. 

Louis’ eyes are blue, blue, blue, and his lips are a little swollen from being kissed, and Harry doesn’t feel quite so scared anymore. 

“Alright, baby,” Louis answers, thumb brushing the corner of Harry’s mouth. “We can.” 

He moves slow, getting things ready. Props the pillows up. Gets some things out of his drawer that Harry doesn’t dare look at or he’ll perish from embarrassment. And then Louis sits down in the middle of the bed, against the pillows, and wordlessly holds his arms out for Harry to enter. 

Harry does, with his legs on either side of Louis’ hips. He likes it like this, likes it when Louis’ hands slide up underneath his hoodie. The touch doesn’t leave Harry feeling dirty. And if Louis notices Harry turning back to make sure the door is locked, he chooses to ignore it. 

“You’re beautiful,” Louis mumbles, and he hasn’t changed a bit since the first time he said it. That’s one thing that will always stay the same; that Harry will always be waiting to hear, at the best and at the worst of times. 

“Say it again,” Harry says through another kiss, as he grinds his hips down. 

“You’re beautiful,” Louis repeats, fingers toying with the waistband of Harry’s sweatpants. 

Harry loses track of time, and loses track of himself with it. All he knows is that Louis makes him come once, and he takes off his hoodie at one point because he’s all sweaty, and Louis sucks more marks into his neck that he’ll able to cover up, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? 

Each movement bleeds into the next, and it all feels  _ right.  _ Louis’ gentle touch under the fabric of his briefs, the smell of lust heavy in the air, and when Louis’ fingertip enters him, as if a question, it’s  _ good.  _ It’s perfect. It’s clean. 

It’s also slow, and wet, and Harry’s breathless and a little confused and a lot overwhelmed, but only in the best ways. 

And Harry feels human again. 

When Louis is  _ really  _ inside him, in the most blatant sense of the phrase, the breath is knocked out of him. Louis is moaning, and Harry is keening with tears caught in his throat, but only because of how good it is. Every time Harry moves, he feels more, and their fingers are laced together on top of Harry’s bare thighs which just adds to the feeling of Louis being everywhere. 

Harry’s back starts trembling with the strain of keeping himself upright, so Louis sits up higher, braces an arm around Harry’s shoulders, and takes very careful control. 

And then it’s over, and Harry’s forgotten how it’s even begun. He’s kind of forgotten how to speak. 

Sweat, and skin, and spit, and come, and Harry’s hair fallen over his eyes, and Louis’ eyes glittering in the dim light, and their palms pressed together over the covers, and the covers clinging uncomfortable to their backs, and  _ love.  _

And Louis. Just Louis. No one else.

All Harry can think is,  _ so that’s what that feels like. _

When it’s done right, of course. And boy, has Louis done it right. 

 

*

 

They’ll shower together later, and Harry will shyly suggest round two, to which Louis will splash him with water until they realize what time it is. 

(It’s 4am. They’re to be up in three hours. That doesn’t really matter, either.)

  
  


**the future**

  
  


Harry gets better. 

It doesn’t get easier, but it doesn’t get harder either. Harry still struggles with losing himself in the days and monotonous actions, but Louis helps him find his way again. Louis’ good at that. 

There’s not even a mere estimate for how long their Revolution will go on for. Not just the Rebellion’s Revolution, but Harry and Louis’. Their Revolution is reconciliation with their pasts, and finding ways to make life not only worth living, but worth fighting for. 

There are ways everywhere, and hidden in everything. In the way Olivia grows up, and Gemma laughs. In the way Liam’s smile falls more in his eyes than his mouth, and Niall treats his physical losses more like fresh starts. In the way the Rebellion celebrates each victory, and even when they aren’t victorious, how they rise from the ashes of their failures. 

They’ll live aboveground one day, when all of this is over. Harry won’t have to think about what happened to him when he was seventeen, and he won’t have to wonder if he and Louis are enough. In the meantime, all he knows is that no one has ever lifted Harry up like Louis has, and Harry’s never wanted to make someone as happy as he wants to make Louis...and that must be love, right? Regardless of  _ how  _ they love, or touch, or what they show to other people, or what things lurk in Harry’s nightmares, or what secrets Louis isn’t ready to tell Harry yet about his life before the Rebellion. 

He will, eventually. They’ll both tell each other everything. There’s time for that, and if Harry’s learned anything, it’s that life is right  _ now _ . 

So, for the sake of the life they have left, Harry decides to let himself love Louis, and love the world they’ve created for themselves. Not the one they  _ will _ create, one day.

(Even though that’s pretty important too.)

  
  


**(not) the end**

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!  
> find me on tumblr [here](http://dystopianharry.tumblr.com) <3  
> [playlist](http://dystopianharry.tumblr.com/post/182399780856/red-hands-the-official-playlist-so-in-honor-of) / fic post


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